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A quote: “After I’m dead I’d rather have people ask why I have no monument than why I have one.” ~~ Cato the Elder
I’ll start with a story …
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“15 minutes, sir.”
He decided all greenrooms looked alike. Hell, he had no idea what city he was in or how he got here. His last memory was … wait … the twins? His connection? He remembered the syringe and … and …
Fuck it. Grabbing his guitar, he headed for the stage. If he did anything – well – inconceivable – in that lost time, that’s what he had lawyers for.
The lights were up. Walking to his spot he realized the sound wasn’t applause but waves of tapping, like wind through bamboo.
He squinted against the glare and … holy god!
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Now, it’s your turn.
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. featured image, cropped, by Wendy Wei, Pexels license.
There’d be no monuments, he knew. He had failed. Yes, he had come close, so many had fallen in behind him. And there were successes. But in the end, he’d not purged the scourge. They remained. He’d failed and would be hated. No monuments.
But neither would he be forgotten. He knew that others, in the future, would understand, and resume his struggle. No monuments, but he would be remembered. They would follow.
He could hear Zhukov’s men outside. He moved next to Eva’s body and raised the barrel to his lips…
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